


Get that looked at

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Baking, Bribery, Cookies, Dinner, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is in his pyjamas and not taking no for an answer.</p><p>Bond secretly likes cookies, a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get that looked at

**Author's Note:**

> Not about sex, whatever I implied in the summary.

It is fifteen months and more than twenty missions after M's death that Q comes to work in a pair of soft red pyjamas. ('Soft red' because Bond is not willing to accept the notion that Q is, technically speaking, wearing a beautiful shade of rose pink.) He is wearing his usual shoes and his usual socks, sipping tea from his usual mug as he sits in his usual posture.

In his pyjamas.

Bond makes a bit of a strangled noise.

"Oh, hello, 007," Q says, looking at him in a perfectly normal way. "Are you feeling all right? You look unsteady," he whispers conspiratorially.

"What," Bond says, gesturing at him vaguely.

Q crosses his eyes trying to look up at his own hair. "I'm sorry, it's a bit of a mess. Did I sleep with it wet again?"

"Pyjamas," Bond answers, voice sort of stuck in his throat.

"Oh, those!" Q exclaims, having something of a 'eureka' moment. "They're very comfortable."

"Workplace!" Bond manages. He swallows. "We have a _dress code_ , you know...!"

"Oh, that," Q says and shrugs. "They know I'm indispensable."

Bond glares hard at him.

"And I work better when I'm comfortable. All my clothes are dirty, since that business last week kept me here all day every day and I didn't have time for laundry day. I can't think when all I can smell is my own sweat." He inhales the steam from his tea contentedly, then sips it.

"You're in your PYJAMAS," Bond accuses.

"You're stating the obvious."

"You could have at least worn a tie," he snaps.

"I'd look ridiculous. Here, see?" He reaches out, apparently to steal Bond's tie and demonstrate how ridiculous he would look. Bond grabs his wrist instinctively. Q sighs and leans back, apparently not caring about the well trained field agent gripping his arm tight enough that it has to be painful.

The two trade amused looks.

"That seems uncomfortable," Q says, managing to use his restrained hand to point in the direction of a second degree burn on the side of Bond's hand. "Are you going to get it looked at?"

"I did get it looked at," he says.

"Eve doesn't count."

Bond huffs and glares at him.

"You really ought to get it looked at," Q tells him.

Bond frowns. He looks ridiculous.

"We have got a doctor, you know."

Bond frowns harder. He is clearly putting a lot of effort into it.

"... I'll make you dinner. That salmon you liked so much."

Bond's resistance falters a little. "With curry sauce?"

"If you go right now," Q promises.

Bond seems almost like he's going to go for it.

Then it is gone. "No!" He says. "I am absolutely fine, and you cannot use cooking as a bribe!"

The two men look at each other in silence for several minutes. The room has filled with dramatic tension, and most nearby employees have been watching them raptly.

"You do know my cooking is delicious," Q reminds him, "You've sampled it on a few occasions."

"A _very_ few occasions."

"By six minutes into the meal you were more interested in dinner than the actual reason I had invited you over."

"I've had lots of sex, and very few tasty home cooked meals," Bond tells him. "Of course I would have a preference between the two."

"Go and get that burn looked at and you can come to dinner every night for a week, then," Q says.

Bond somehow remains resolute.

Q sighs, then reached into his laptop bag and rummages a little. He pulls out a large, flat cookie wrapped in plastic. Its deep brown colour tells of molasses as a key ingredient. "I just baked these cookies last night. They're perfect. You can have half of this one," Q promises.

"All of it."

"Two thirds."

"Done, you cold bastard," Bond snaps, and walks from the room.

 

When Bond returns a while later, with his hand wrapped in clean bandages and looking like someone spent a great deal of effort towards the goal of aggravating him and thoroughly succeeded, Q smiles a little and hands him seventeen twenty-fourths of the cookie precisely.

He's not sure if Bond notices, but the man definitely seems a bit happier.

**Author's Note:**

> 16/24s is two thirds.


End file.
